Provoke
by Lady Anatui
Summary: Kyro. John has been pestering Kitty for a month now, and she's getting fed up, but her small revenge plan backfires.
1. Part 1

**Title:** Provoke - Part 1  
**Author:** Ana  
**Rating:** PG-13 to R? Is there something in between those?  
**imeline:** Before X1 and after X2 or AU  
**Summary:** John has been pestering Kitty for a month now, and she's getting fed up, but her small revenge plan backfires.  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own John or Kitty. I do not own Bobby, Rogue, Piotr, or Jubilee. I do not own X-Men. I wish I did, but that all belongs to Marvel.  
**Author's Note:** This idea came from a poem I wrote a couple weeks ago, which I really like. The poem was from the guy's perspective. In this, I switched it around and made it from Kitty's. The story wouldn't have worked out as well, sadly enough. Oh well, though. Enjoy! This ended up being long, so I decided to cut it in half and post the second part later.  
**WARNINGS:** Foul language and a little bit of sexual stuff, but nothing too bad.

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_Provoke - Part 1_

My hair was in my face again, but this time it had been done purposefully so. I could hardly breathe, especially in that kind of situation. How could he possibly have said that aloud? To the entire class?! I just couldn't believe—still hardly can. Nevertheless, the words, their meaning, his voice—it all repeated over and over in my mind, even as Jubilee turned and looked at me with wide eyes.

"_She's_ the one that started it," he had said. "_She_ is the one that actually did it." And he had pointed right at me. In the middle of class, I tell you! I was so very embarrassed.

Well, I'm just so glad class is over. It all still repeats, but it's a little better without everyone staring at me. I'm a little less embarrassed. And a little more angry. Now that I'm not so scared, I can really think about and concentrate on what he said. And why.

Why would he do that? Why would he ever have a need to embarrass me horribly? So maybe I did provoke him—just a little bit—but does that mean he has to retaliate so very brutally? No, it most certainly does not!

By the time I reach my next class, I can tell that word has already gotten around. I can hear the whispers of the other students. My name. I hear my name repeatedly. And they point at me to elaborate when someone doesn't know me by name. These stares are almost as bad as the ones when he said it originally. Not quite, but almost.

But, honestly, how dare he even say such a thing? Since when have I been the one to start these things? He's always been the one sitting down just to get into my mind and make me uncomfortable. I hate him for it. He just does it for kicks. I most certainly did not start it. He's the one that's been provoking me for weeks—is it a month now?

So, naturally, I think I deserve a little payback.

And boy was that payback sweet. Well, for a while. Until he ruined it. Until Professor Munroe came into the classroom and saw it. Until he had to go and say that all in front of the entire class.

Now, my life is ruined… as well as my reputation. Already, everyone's looking at me differently. God, I can't even look at Bobby or Rogue. Jeez, they must be so very disappointed in me. And Jubilee… well, I'm not sure about _her_. Totally ecstatic or totally appalled? Can't decide which would be worse.

But, still, every single day, he sat there. Well, I take that back—all right, not really. I just mean to clarify. By 'there', I do not mean a specific geographical location. I mean a specific relative location. By 'there', I mean that he sat beside or across from me in every single class we had together. If we have assigned seats, then he sits there until the bell rings and the teacher begins to take role. Sometimes longer, despite whatever student needs to sit there to be considered on time. He never cares about the other people.

He's done it several times before. Just sit there after the bell rings with one student—usually Piotr—standing right behind him, waiting for him to move. If he weren't getting a rise out of me at the time, he'd leave immediately or, rarely, even before the bell rang. But, if he were having fun, if he were getting a rise out of me, he'd relish it, he'd stay there to milk it for all it's worth.

Greedy bastard.

I remember one time when I was in a particularly bad mood. As soon as I entered the classroom, there he was, sitting on the edge of my desk with that same smirk on his face. He just looked down at me and snapped his lighter open then closed. Just to frustrate me. Oh, he already knew I was in a bad mood. He'd known since breakfast. And he was enjoying every second of it.

"What do you want?" I had snarled immediately, narrowing my eyes at that god-awful smirk of his.

He had raised his eyebrows at my statement and said, "Calm down, Kitten. Wouldn't want to hurt anyone with those claws, now would you?"

No matter what, he always got a rise out of me at least once a day. That day, it was far more than that. Maybe seven, but I'm not quite sure if that's right. I don't know—my mind is too focused on being angry with him to remember properly. I'm sure I could if I really tried, though, dammit.

And there was one time that he just suddenly appeared in the hallway to startle the hell out of me. I had been in the middle of my book, trying to finish that section before the day was over, and suddenly he was beside me. I screamed. He couldn't stop laughing for five minutes.

Then, sometime last week, he said, "Let's play a game," out of the blue. It might have been because I was half ignoring him. Apparently I wasn't entertaining enough for him to be happy.

I had sighed at that and looked up from my homework assignment. I don't recall what class it was, but it was one where we were allowed to pick our own seats. "What game?" I asked coldly. "Truth or Dare?"

"No," he said immediately, like he was insulted by the mere thought of it. Yeah, well, good.

"Why don't you play a game by yourself, John?" I said before returning to my work. I ignored his further pestering and somehow managed to finish my work just as class ended. Lucky me.

I don't understand him. Why does making me angry matter? Is it really that funny to see someone else squirm? What an odd sense of humor he must have. Yeah, and I hate him for it.

The first time it happened was a lot different. That first time, it was right after he got that first rise out of me that he left. He just smirked at me when I clenched my jaw and opened my mouth to say something rude back to him, and, then, he left, back to his own seat. I find it funny now—he didn't even stay to enjoy it.

Ever since last week, though, it's like he's been trying to get me to play a game. I'm not sure what exactly he means by that phrase, but I don't think it's good. Games to him seem to be completely different than the normal person's games.

Honestly, it seems to me like we're already playing a game—and he's most definitely winning. Yes, that's what this is. It's a game to him, and it's starting to become one to me. Well, he made plenty of moves, and I just let him play without really playing back. Sure, I moved a few pawns, but nothing important.

So I decided to fight back, to play my hand. Look how that turned out, though. I never anticipated him to have a better hand than I do. Damn him.

I've played his game now, and I don't like it. I don't like the other game either, though, especially since it was that game that got me into this trouble. I'll never play _that_ again. Sure, maybe I did start that game, but he started the original one, so I don't see how it could ever possibly be _my_ fault.

But that's just the thing. He didn't say that to get out of trouble or anything. He said it to embarrass me. He said it to ruin my reputation. He said it to see just how pink my face would get. To get another damn rise out of me. To see how angry I would get before I snapped and screamed at him.

Yeah, well, I won't give him the satisfaction. I didn't scream or yell or anything. Sure, I was—and still am—totally embarrassed. My face is still pink, I'm sure. And, yes, I'm angry, but I'm not going to give him the satisfaction by yelling and screaming in front of everyone. I'm not going to let him see me cry in my frustration.

Sure, I lost that round, but the game's not over yet. Just need to shuffle the deck a little before dealing it out again.

But, just as much as I don't like either game, I'm positive that he enjoys both. Evidence: his smirk from one thing, and something _else_ from the other. That something else… well, it's not something I'm particularly fond of, but, then again, I must say that I didn't think I'd ever to be able to get a rise out of him—of _any_ sort. A little bit proud of myself, honestly.

I sigh as I sit down at my last class of the day and pull out my book to read. Anything to get my mind off of this for the time being. Except that, just as I'm about to settle into the scene within those wonderful pages, his voice comes to me.

"I enjoyed that," he says as I look up. He's sitting on the top of my desk with his feet up on another desk, blocking the walkway. "Let's play it again sometime." He's smirking, and I automatically regret anything I did last class. I shouldn't have allowed myself to get carried away like that. It was a mistake.

I glance him up and down for a moment. "I don't think so," I mumble quietly and quickly avert my eyes. I don't trust myself with him right now. I could… do something stupid.

"You don't want to play? You seemed to be really into it before," he smirks.

"Well, you're wrong," I reply. "I wasn't."

He's about to say something, but, then, Bobby walks over to stand beside me in what he hopes is a reassuring stance. "You all right, Kitty?" he asks, worried.

In response, I look up at him and smile supportively.

He doesn't seem swayed, though. "Do you want me to help?" he continues, glancing over at John, who just glares back at him. His voice is worried, and I want to say something to make him understand that I am in control of myself.

The bell rings.

"I'm fine, Bobby," I say in quiet determination, but I can't seem to look him in the eye when I say it. "I can handle this."

After a small frustrated sigh, he nods and returns to his own seat, and I can finally return my attention to the annoying, conniving jerk sitting on my desk. When I look at him, his smirk is even larger than the last time I saw it. I didn't think that was possible before. Well, just proved me wrong. Honestly, he looks smug, like something good for him just happened.

"What?" I ask.

He pushes his feet away and spins toward me before placing one leg on either side of me and leaning forward toward me. Suddenly, I don't like where this is going, but I'm too stunned to do or say anything. "You can handle this, huh?" he asks haughtily. "Why are you so sure, Kitten?"

He's insulting me, I realize. How dare he?! How dare he insult me after practically exclaiming to the entire school that I'm hot for him. If anything it's the other way around, considering things. Come on! But, then again, I was the one with my hand in… an inappropriate place.

But no. I won't yell at him, no matter how much I might want to. That's exactly what he wants. He wants me to get even more embarrassed, to be even more entertaining to him. I won't let that happen, though.

"I'm sure," I respond, sitting up, "because I caught you by surprise before and I can do it again. Just because you said that doesn't mean I'm going to give up. I play to win, John."

"Do you even know what game we're playing?" he inquires as he raises his eyebrow in challenge.

I huff for a moment, then suggest with a small smirk of my own, "Truth or Dare?"

He looks me over for a moment, taking in how I hold myself and the look in my eyes. Finally, he settles for saying, "I like this side of you. It's a lot more… interesting." I think that's supposed to be congratulatory in some weird way.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I should stop then," I say, looking down at my hands.

"You're still doing it, even when you do that there," he replies, smirking. He leans even closer to my face and murmurs, "It's kinda hot."

Once the words are out of his mouth, I lean back in my seat, as far away from him as possible. "I had come to the conclusion that we already knew what you thought of me," I snap angrily, my memory going back to fifteen minutes ago. "Or was there something else going through your mind last period when I…?" But, for some reason, I can't bring myself to say it out loud.

"When you what? When you came onto me?" he challenges.

I shrug. If he has to say it so rudely, I suppose. "Well, you wanted to play a game, didn't you?" I defend. "You're rather good at it, I must admit, but, with your record, I didn't really expect anything else."

He doesn't seem to even notice my insulting his virtue. He probably came to terms with that a long time ago. Actually, he probably never cared. Instead, he just asks in an interested tone, "So what's the goal of this game?"

I don't know why, but I find myself answering him anyway. "To see how much it takes for the person to feel awkward."

"You must be really bad at it, huh, Kitten?" he says offhandedly.

"Never been on the receiving end before," I respond. "Actually, today was the first time I ever played, so I'm not exactly a master at any part of it."

"And how exactly does it work?"

I roll my eyes. "Don't tell me you're a moron, _too_, now?"

He laughs at that. "I think I've got the idea of it," he says. "But it seems difficult to play in this position, with me up here and you down there."

I raise both eyebrows at that. "And why exactly would I want to play that game with _you_?" I question defensively.

"You already did, Kitten, so there's no going back now," he reasons with a shrug. Then, he appears to be considering something for a moment. "It's rather funny, don't you think? I'm the provoker, and, suddenly, you're the provocateur." The words stun me into silence for a moment.

It's at that point that Professor Summers enters the classroom. Late again. He glances around the room for not even a second and, as he turns toward the board to begin writing our notes for the day, says, "John, Kitty, as interesting as your young love may be, I'd prefer if you left it to outside of lessons. Please return to your seat now, John."

I'm even more speechless than I was before the professor came in. And all John does is smirk at me before getting up and returning to his own chair.

I spend the rest of the lesson brooding. The rumors continue to circulate, and, all the while, I can see that he's relishing it.

God, I hate him.

He's right, though. I probably would be bad at the game. His hand on my knee, and I'd already be feeling awkward. The farther is moves, the more awkward I feel. Yes, he'd definitely win easily.

This is all his fault, though. If he didn't provoke me all the time, I wouldn't have acted so rashly. I wouldn't have snapped and tried to play his game. I wouldn't have lost, either. His entire fault. Everything.

And now he's planning something, and I don't like it. I don't trust what he could possibly try to get me to do. Or do to me. Or whatever. I don't know. I'm just confused now. But, at the same time, it's so obvious. He wants a reaction out of me. Again. He probably wants me to react to it in the same way he did, which, honestly, I don't know about. It very well could happen. I mean, he's, for lack of a better word, hot. And, thinking about him… doing _that_—well, it could be rather appealing.

The question is: Would he be more satisfied if he won or if he lost? Seriously, he gets such a thrill from seeing me embarrassed or frustrated, but he also seems to… well, to have a sexual attraction toward me, which is rather good for my self-esteem but not for my conscience.


	2. Part 2

_Provoke - Part 2_

When class eventually ends, I slump my head on my desk and sigh. I just hope I can avoid and escape all the prying eyes on my way back to my room. I really don't want to have to deal with people. Luckily, I can just phase through them all.

Just as I'm about to take a deep breath and go out into the halls bravely, "Hiding here?"

I lift my head at the words and glance around the room. He's the only one left, and he's standing right in front of my desk. Even Professor Summers is gone. Jeez, how did that happen?

"So what if I am?" I reply cautiously.

He shrugs at my words and sets down his notebook and pencil before moving toward the door. I'm not sure what he's doing until he closes the door and, inconveniently enough, locks it from the inside. Sure, I can get out, but, if something happens, no one can get in. Not very reassuring if you ask me.

I sigh again. "What is that you want, John?"

He smirks at that as he sits down in the open seat on my right and puts his feet up on the top of the desk. "I want a lot of things, Kitten," he says as he leans back in relaxation. "But, currently, my top priority is to play a game with you."

"I don't want to play, John," I sigh.

He ignores my words. "You've been anticipating it all period. I could tell."

"Since when have you been a genius psychologist?" I snort in disbelief.

"I don't have to be one. I _know_ you."

"That's a little creepy, John." I tap my fingernails on the tabletop to distract myself. It doesn't work.

"You like it."

I laugh at that. He has such audacity—you have to give him that much. I'd never be able to say half the things that come out of his mouth. "I'm _not_ playing a game with you."

"You're playing a game right now," he reminds me.

"Yes, but not _that_ game. So keep your hands where I can see them, asshole." There, is that audacious enough for him?

He raises an eyebrow at me but complies by placing both his hands on the tabletop in front of us and says, "Yes, ma'am." Then, in a whisper, he adds, "_Very_ hot."

I glare down at his hands there, as if all of his unpleasant qualities lie in those very hands.

"Or you could close your eyes and it wouldn't matter where they go…" he says slowly.

Sadly, they don't.

"I don't think so."

He sighs in defeat. But there's something more to it than that. He's not giving up yet. I doubt he'd ever give up, honestly. "Fine," he says, "I keep my hands to myself—oh, wait, you didn't say that. I keep my hands where you can see them. You can still see them if I do this, can't you?"

I'm so startled that I can't move as he takes down his feet and turns toward me. In no time, his left hand is on my knee and already moving up. To play the game. And all I can focus on is the fact that he's sexually molesting me and that I like it.

And there's no one here to stop it.

Except me.

I look up at him to tell him to stop—though I'm not sure why that's better than just phasing away from him, but it is—but, the next thing I know, his lips are on mine and my eyes are shut and I'm just enjoying the moment.

Wait a minute! That's not part of the game, dammit!

But I'm kissing him back, anyway.

And now I don't know what to do with my own hands. While his is making its way up toward my hip with his other one joining it, mine are still sitting on the desk in front of me. It doesn't seem right to just leave them there. And, then, his hands aren't even on my hips anymore. Instead, they're making their way up my torso. _Beneath_ my shirt. Thank god they're not cold.

He pulls away, and, for a moment, I'm not sure why. But, then—oh my—that's my shirt he's lifting over my head! I follow it with my eyes all the way to the floor, but, once it's out of the way, his lips have found mine again, even if it's for a short period of time. Which it most certainly is. Almost immediately, his mouth has moved away from mine and down onto my neck.

Meanwhile, his hands wrap around my waist—and one even grabs my butt—to pull me off of my seat and onto his open lap. Trailing warmth behind them as they move, his hands, then, make their way up my back and to my own arms, which he moves to better suit the position. The next thing I notice is that my hands have been placed in his hair and on his chest.

Then, he pulls away again and stops his hands right where they are, and his lips are moving, but I don't understand the words. I say "Huh?" just as the words are registering. He said, "Okay, I lied." At my poor question, he repeats himself.

"What about?" I barely manage to get out.

"My top priority. I don't want this to be just a game."

Wow, that's the sweetest thing he's ever said to me. Hold on! Did I just think that John Allerdyce is sweet? That's impossible. In fact, that's _beyond_ impossible! Pyro is a reckless hothead who only thinks about himself.

"I can't do this," I say in a rare moment of bravery as I untangle myself from his grasp. "I have to go." I stumble in my hurry but manage to get off his lap and pick up my shirt from the floor before tugging it on over my head. How could I have let him do this?! And, then, grabbing my books from my desk, I run through the shut and locked door, leaving him in Professor Summers's classroom all by himself. Good riddance.

Once I make it through the mess in the hallways and into my room, I collapse on my bed in a heap, where I come to a conclusion: John Allerdyce can only be sweet if I'm going insane. Maybe the shock of him kissing me was too much. Or maybe his provoking me has made me go crazy. Either way, I must be out of my mind to have come to the conclusion that John Allerdyce could have ever been sweet in his entire life.

And, as I lie here on my bed in silent misery, Professor Munroe's words ring in my ears: "John, please do not partake in any such activities while in my classroom. Violent storms have a tendency to turn up when I see the male reproductive organs in progress."

"What?" he had replied defensively. And then those fateful words: "_She's_ the one that started it. _She_ actually did it."

She had looked at me, then, and spoke. "Kitty, I'd very much like it if you, too, did not partake in those activities in my classroom." Disappointment—disappointment that still makes me feel even guiltier than I already had been.

A knock sounds on my door, but I really don't feel like answering it.

I hope to God that it isn't John come to call on me because I really don't want to hear whatever it is he has to say. I'm still not sure if I can ever look him in the eye again. Despite his part in this, I still feel like he's expecting something out of me, like he's expecting me to be all cute and sweet and believe his crap. I don't, though. Right now, I just feel tainted—partially because he did that to me, partially because I let him, but mostly because I liked it… and him.

"Kitty?!" the person calls in when I don't respond. I recognize the voice as belonging to Bobby. "Kitty, are you in there?"

Jeez, I don't want to talk to him either. Or anyone, really. I feel like I've betrayed them all, like I've lied about being a good girl and a good person. And yet, before in class, Bobby didn't seem swayed by that. Maybe it was just because he thinks this is all John's fault and that, if I weren't near John, I'd be fine. Probably true, but it's still awful of him to think such a horrible thing about John—but he _is_ the one that knows John best.

With a deep breath, I get up and move toward the door, which I open slowly. I poke my head out to look at him, my eyes sad, and he looks back at me. "Yeah?" I say slowly. "What can I help you with, Bobby?"

"Are you all right?" he asks immediately, relief showing as soon as I opened the door. "You've been out of it all day, and… and I've been worried about you since Professor Munroe's class."

I nod in response to his question, adding a short little, "I'm fine, Bobby," but I don't really mean it. He doesn't appear persuaded by it, anyway.

"Would you like me to talk to John about something?" he offers, and I smile at the words. Bobby's really a great friend. I don't know what I'd do without him. "I could tell him to leave you alone if you like."

I shake me head, laughing lightly. "No, that's all right. I'm not sure what I'm going to do, anyway, or what I want, for that matter."

"Yeah, well, he seems rather sure of what he wants," he says bitterly.

"Did he?" I ask sadly. "He said something back there, and I'm not even sure if I understood him correctly. Maybe it's all part of my imagination, though. Maybe it's because that's what I _wanted_ him to say."

"What did he say?"

"He said that he didn't want this to be just a game. Maybe I misunderstood. Or maybe I just interpreted his meaning incorrectly. But it seemed like he meant that he wanted to pursue a relationship with me—but, oh, that doesn't make sense." I groan in my frustration and open the door the rest of the way. "Do you want to come in? Or can you not stay long?"

"No, I was going to meet Rogue in a few. I just wanted to check on you." He smiles worriedly at me for a moment. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"Not really," I respond honestly, "but I'll figure something out. I guess I need to talk to him about this all. I'm just not sure how well that will go over."

"You'll do fine, Kitty. I believe in you." He pulls me into a friendly hug, and I can't help but smile. "Well, goodbye for now," he says as he leans away. "I'll see you in the morning, all right?"

"Yeah," I acquiesce.

When he's finally walked away, I sigh again but don't return to my room. Leaning against my doorframe, I decide that I have a few options from which I must choose:

One: I can avoid, ignore, and, in all other ways, never interact with John Allerdyce for the rest of my life.

Two: I can confront him about it, get him to talk to me to tell me what exactly it is that he meant by that statement (if he ever actually made it).

Three: I can commit suicide. Not a very likely option, but still possible. Besides, I would be able to escape all of this confusion.

Four: I can just make out with him and even have sex with him. Maybe then he would be satisfied and leave me alone. And maybe then I'd be able to think properly.

And five: I can act as if nothing ever happened. I can go on like I barely know him and I don't recall ever placing my hand where it shouldn't have been or having him place his hands where they most definitely should not have been.

Well, to begin with, number three is completely out of the question. I am never going to commit suicide over some boy, even if it's John Allerdyce. Number one sounds pretty stupid, too. He'd eventually confront me about it, and that would end horribly. I'm sure of it. And four is also very doubtful. I'm a virgin, and I plan on staying that way until I'm twenty. It couldn't possibly be healthy to have sex now. Besides, wouldn't that just be giving in?

So that leaves me with acting as if it never happened or confronting him about it. And, still, I have no idea what to do. If I act like nothing happened, that could either make him frustrated and leave me alone or it could make him even more intrigued. Confronting him… well, that could totally backfire quite easily. It seems to be the most difficult option—and yet it's the one that I should really be taking. I'm just not sure if I'm prepared to do so.

Where can I find him, anyway?

With about an ounce of determination, I phase my way in the direction of his room and, when I get there, right through the door without knocking. He shares a room with Bobby—probably how they met and became, oddly enough, friends—but he's out with Rogue, so it should be all right.

The dorm is barely lit when I enter and look around. John is lying on his bed, already in his bedclothes (a T-shirt and boxers), and, apparently, trying to go to sleep. He doesn't notice I'm there for a moment, but, as he shakes his head in frustration and rolls over on his side toward the rest of the room, he sees me standing there.

"Hi," I say quietly.

He's stunned for a moment, but he thinks quickly and recovers almost immediately. "I didn't think you'd be speaking to me," he says as he sits up. "I thought you'd be avoiding me entirely, actually."

I sigh as I move toward the other open bed and sit down across from him. "I considered it," I admit with a shrug, "but I didn't think you'd let me get away with that."

He doesn't appear to have a reply to that. He just sits there awkwardly until he finally resigns himself to saying, "Well, uh, you came here to say something, didn't you?"

"Actually, I came here for _you_ to say something. Um, what exactly did you mean earlier when you said what you did?"

"When I said what?"

"That you didn't want this to be just a game. Did you really say that?"

"Er, yeah."

"What did you mean by it?"

"I meant just what I said. I _don't_ want this to be only a game."

"Well, what would you rather it be? A relationship, a short make-out session, what?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of several _long_ make-out sessions, a relationship, lots of extremely hot sex, living together, and hopefully marriage after that. How does that sound?"

I falter at those words, again thinking that I must not have heard him correctly. "Marriage?" I ask in confusion. "It sounds like a really weird dream."

"Not a nightmare?" he says, doing that annoying eyebrow raise for practically the fiftieth time today.

"No," I reply, a small smile forming on my lips. "A good dream, I promise. But an impossible dream." And my smile's gone from my face.

"How so?" he inquires in disbelief. "We can do those first two, right now."

"It won't last," I insist.

"Don't be so sure. It will if we make it last. Do you not want it to?"

"I don't know, John. Just yesterday I thought you hated me—and I thought I hated you, too."

"You don't think that now, though?"

I look away from him for a moment as I say, "I most certainly don't," but my eyes can't help but return to him once the words are out to judge his reaction.

"Then, what's the problem?" he asks. He's so… strong. He won't be persuaded by anything I say here now. He's nonchalant.

"Don't you think this is moving a little fast?" I question, somewhat angered by his indifference and casual way of saying things to put his point across.

"Listen, Kitten, I've liked you for months, and I've just finally gotten up the courage to tell you, so I don't think this is fast at all. Besides, I'm not saying that we go get married tomorrow. Well, we could if you wanted to, but we don't _have_ to." Maybe not so perfect nonchalance anymore, though.

I laugh, happy that he's finally shown something other than indifference toward our situation. "No, not tomorrow."

We just stare at each other for a while before he finally asks, "So, are we dating yet?"

"You never asked."

"Fine. Kitty Pryde, will you be my girlfriend?"

I pause as if considering it before I inquire rather innocently, "Does that mean I have to have lots of extremely hot sex with you?"

"Yes," he says with an amused smirk, "but of course not right away. The long make-out sessions—now _that's_ another story."

"Oh, then, as officially boyfriend and girlfriend, we should get on that right away. I'm not so sure that the whole shirt-removal thing is a good idea, though."

He shrugs at that. "Hey, what ever floats your boat, Kitten."

"Kittens don't like water, though, bud," I remind him, "so you better keep me from getting wet."

I can tell that he wants to roll his eyes at that, but something else must come between him and that tendency. Instead, he says, "No, I think I want to make _sure_ you get wet. Soaking wet. All the time. Even a kitten's got to indulge every once in a while."

It's my turn to roll my eyes then. "Better not keep that gross talk up if you ever want to enjoy any of that extremely hot sex _or_ the long make-out sessions, John."

He smirks at me as he stands up and approaches. "Why would I need to talk?" he says and presses his lips to mine for the third time today. "Why would I even _want_ to," he continues after pulling away for a moment, "when I can do this now without you freaking out on me?"

When he kisses me again, I don't complain. Or reply to his questions—except to fervently return the kiss.

…I just hope Bobby never figures out that we're currently making out on his bed. That might not turn out so well. Besides, making out on other people's beds just so happens to be one of the side effects of being provoked by John Allerdyce. Bobby would get over it. And, frankly, I could care less right about now.

_THE END_


End file.
